


Cold Comfort

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Food, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pie, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the las prompt "Comfort food." John's favorite dessert has been the same since he was a kid. A fic about Sarah and John's relationship as mother and son, with some angst and references to the movies. Starts when John i a child, goes AU post-series. Language, angst.</p><p>Originally published on lj.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

One of John's best memories is from when he was six. He remembers very clearly one place they stopped between training camps - an old diner, shabby but clean, with brightly colored vinyl adorning the booths. That was the first place he ever tried coconut cream pie.

Creamy and smooth and the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Like pudding and pie and frosting all in one, with the toasted coconut on top like crispy candy sprinkles.

Maybe it was because the last place they lodged, it was mostly squirrel meat and Saltines. Maybe he was simply happy it was just the two of them again. But something about that pie stayed with him. He still remembers that first taste, that reminder that some surprises were actually wonderful.

He gobbled it down quickly, and when he was done, he grinned up at his mother. She looked like she wanted to laugh as she brought a napkin to his face to clear the whipped cream off his lips.

It wasn't at all like when she corrected his stance or put his hand closer to the safety, when she would smile but still look sad; this time, her smile was so bright and her eyes were crinkly, and she looked so happy and beautiful.

John looked around then, saw other boys and girls laughing with their parents, and he felt just like them. Except better maybe, since nobody else had a mom as nice as his.

\--

After they stopped the T-1000 - after his Uncle Bob died - Sarah wouldn't stop driving for weeks, wouldn't stop switching cars and looking over their shoulder long enough for them to have a meal more substantial than what they could pick up at a gas station. But then, all of a sudden, she decided they would try a "family restaurant" by the highway.

She ordered coffee and he ordered pie, and Sarah calmly sipped her mug as if there were nothing strange about it.

John asked her what was wrong.

Nothing, she said. She just wanted to know if John wanted to talk.

The answer was no. No, he didn't want to talk about them almost getting killed, or her being crazy and then not crazy and then possibly crazy still. And he definitely didn't want to talk about the fact that one of the few people - or rather, one of the few beings - who had ever given a damn about him had just melted into nothing on purpose, or the fact that he was stupid enough to cry like a baby over it (and Sarah may have taught him to fight but it wasn't until public school that he learned that boys don't cry).

He stared at the table, refusing to look back at her, until the server brought dessert.

At first he picked at it, but then he took a big mouthful of cool, creamy filling. It really did taste good. Lots of shredded coconut, and a graham cracker crust.

Against his will, he smiled a little.

John saw them, then. A normal family, walking into the diner. Dressed in black, looking sad and weary, and John knew that they had come from a funeral.

Sarah noticed him looking at them, and said, "It's okay that you miss him. He was good to us."

"I'm fine," he said curtly. But he kept staring at the family.

"They're not so different. I know it seems - "

"The pie's good," he said, "Want some?" His petulant eyes said, _Don't forget you're part of humanity, blah, blah._

She hesitated, then nodded and took a bite. She smiled brightly. "It is good."

They ate quietly then, as if they had reached some kind of tentative truce in this new battle to live together again, with the new people they had each become. When they finished, she couldn't help but thumb away the crumb on his cheek.

Surprisingly, he let her.

\--

Years later, Cameron hid his favorite dessert.

Sarah had bought it at the Safeway after they had endured yet another move. But it wasn't in the refrigerator.

"Why would you hide dessert?" Sarah asked, peering at Cameron suspiciously.

"I thought John wouldn't want to look at it."

John frowned. "I love coconut cream pie," he said, and although anyone else would have called Cameron's stare blank, John recognized it as confusion.

But of course she quickly adapted, then casually opened the dishwasher to reveal the pie.

Sarah gave John a look, which he returned with half a shrug; in another house, the exchange would mean _What has your sister done now?_ and _How should I know? But to them, it meant, _I don't like when she's unpredictable,_ and _I know, Mom, but she is who she is.__

After Sarah left, John asked Cameron, "So in the future, I don't like coconut cream pie? Not even looking at it?"

"There's not much pie in the future," she answered, and left him too. He knew he wouldn't get a better answer from that. Future John was apparently a very private guy.

\--

Years after they lost Cameron, at another diner in another state, John was biting into a loose glob of pie when Sarah told him.

It was probably the same way thousands of other mothers told their sons. It was, ironically, a moment of shattering normalcy.

But he couldn't think about other people at that moment. The other customers, the outside world, blurred.

Faded.

Narrowed to Sarah's face, saying words like chemo and nutrition and 40% chance and a bunch of other bullshit that was not supposed to be what took Sarah fucking Connor down.

He tasted metal, the fork digging into his tongue. Then coconut, nauseatingly sweet, then an oily veneer of fake whipped cream.

He wanted to vomit.

Sarah kept talking.

He brought another bite to his mouth, mechanically, as if programmed. This time, it tasted like nothing.


End file.
